


Absolution

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Guilt, M/M, Physical Abuse, dark!stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 23:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13557513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: “ I don’t deserve to be loved. ”





	Absolution

“Love ya, Sixer,” Stan presses a gentle kiss to his head and Ford’s chest wells with warmth chased quickly and ruthlessly by the cold grip of guilt.

“I don’t deserve to be loved, Stanley. Least of all by you,” he murmurs into Stan’s chest, feels the steady, strong heart beat in a soothing rhythm:  _ he’s alive _ ,  _ he’s alive, he’s alive _ . 

“True,” Stan says, easy and honest. Ford feels wretched with misery and the knowledge that he deserves this. “Ya fucked up a lot, Ford.” Stan continues, light and breezy as if he isn’t gutting Ford with ever word.

“I know,” Ford confesses as his face heats and his eyes start the telltale prickle. Stan rubs his back and makes a soft noise like he’s trying to soothe Ford’s guilt away.

“I’m glad. ‘Cause ya can be a real proud bastard sometimes.” Stan continues rubbing at his back, up and down and up to scratch gently at the nape of Ford’s neck. It makes him shiver, goosebumps breaking out on his skin as the cold in his chest radiates ever outward and it’s hard to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers miserably, turning his head into Stan’s plush chest, trying to force the inevitable tears away because he does not deserve to cry; he does not deserve the attempt for sympathy. 

“I know you are.” Stan leans back and Ford almost whines at the loss. Without Stan’s warmth the cold creeps in and starts to squeeze his chest like ice, tighter and tighter. Stan drags a knuckle up Ford’s stubbled neck, making him shudder at the vulnerability as Stan tilts his chin up so he can look at Ford. His eyes are stern but kind behind his square glasses. “But sorry doesn’t change what you did, Ford. It was pretty messed up. The kids, the world.” Stan frowns, shakes his head in disappointment. “Ya damn near killed me.” Ford’s breath stutters as his chest spasms and the tears start to fall because,  _ yes _ , he had killed his brother, his Stanley, the only person he had ever really trusted. His  _ family.  _

“I’m sorry,” he says uselessly. He closes his eyes when Stan  _ tsks _ and starts to thumb away his tears.

“Apologies are pointless, Sixer, it’s done.” Stan scratches at his sideburns as Ford sobs softly, hating himself and the gentleness he doesn’t deserve. Could never earn. But he could try.

“What can I do?” He begs, hands fling up to cup Stan’s hairy wrists, to message them in turn with his thumbs. His watery eyes meet Stan’s as he bites his lip to stop it from trembling. Stan looks at him, tilts his head as he thinks.

“It really bothers you, huh?” Stan asks, one hand sliding to cup Ford’s skull, the other rests against his neck, thumb against his jumping carotid artery. He feels light headed on reflex. “You wanna make it up to me, right, Sixer?” Stan leans in and gently kisses Ford’s tear stained cheeks. Ford sniffs and nods, bowing his head. “Alright,” and Stan gives him one last kiss on the forehead. “Come to the bedroom, Stanford. Show me how sorry you are.”

 

Ford is a wreck following Stan through the shack and to his bedroom. The twins are long since gone and the emptiness of the house only deepens Ford’s sense of foreboding and guilt, every shadow absent a stuffed toy or gnawed pen echoes the almost-reality of losing the twins for good. It makes his chest ache and his stomach roil. All too soon Stan is opening the door to his room and not bothering to look back.

Stan’s room is the same as it had been, messy but somehow organized. 

“Close the door.” Stan’s voice is still so soft, so loving. It hurts Ford more than anything could. Ford does, stands staring at the wood, lost. “Ford,” Stan’s voice takes on a harder edge, like he's disappointed. “Ya gonna stand there all day or are ya gonna show me how sorry ya are?” Ford jumps, guilty for his melancholy lassitude and hesitant trepidation. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, turning to face his brother whose sitting on the bed, indolent and expectant. Ford doesn't. 

“Come ‘ere, Stanford.” Stan sighs and beckons his brother over. Ford walks over, shoulders hunch, making to sit next to his brother. “Ah!” Ford freezes, confused. “Knees, Ford.” Ford swallows nervously before slowly lowering himself to the floor. The wood is cold and hard against his aging knees and his heavy boots dig into his ass. He isn't comfortable but that isn't the point. He looks shyly up at his brother. Stan’s earlier benevolence is faded, a thin veneer over something hard. It makes Ford remember the portal, the creatures he'd seen in crisp, pressed uniforms with pronged, burning rods, pushing against mobs and petty criminals without mercy. And that is what he sees, or rather, what he does not. Mercy.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers to the floor. He feels one of Stan’s feet nudge against his thigh.

“Hey, look at me.” Stan says with another light kick, voice authoritative. Ford looks up, stares at Stan’s mouth rather than his eyes. Stan reaches out, grabs his hair, tangling fingers in the strands and pull Ford's head back further.

“This ain't a punishment, Ford. It's a penance. Yer gonna make it up to me; all the shit. Gettin’ me kicked out, branding my fuckin’ shoulder,” Ford grits his teeth as Stan’s hand jerks Ford's head, “and bein’ such a fuckin’ smartass that I had to clean up your mess by  _ wiping my damn brain. _ ” And Ford knows Stan said this wasn't a punishment but the fist in his hair is so angry. “So,” Stan says, breathing hard but even. “what do I do with you, Stanford?” Ford swallows, nervousness rising, tangling over the guilt and the need for absolution. He wants to call this whole thing off.

“Whatever you want,” Ford croaks, voice rough and quiet, throat too tight. Stan sighs again, lets go of Ford’s head so that it can hang, humiliated. 

“You can do better than that, Ford.” Stan shifts his foot to land between Ford’s knees, the toe of his sock grazes Ford’s crotch; Ford’s face flushes red. “Come on, Sixer. I wanna know.” Ford shakes his head again, unable to think of a suitable punishment and too frightened, damn him, to voice the ones that are. Stan’s foot disappears and then _ slams _ into Ford’s stomach hard enough to force all the air from his body as it doubles over and between the anxiety, the guilt, the blow Ford wretches, nothing but spittle comes up. Stan makes a noise like disgust and the tears at Ford’s eyes grow hotter. “Ford, I really don’t wanna hurt ya, I love ya, but yer starting to piss me off.” Ford coughs more thick saliva onto the floor. 

“I--”

“Don't.” Stan barks and Ford flinches. “Get up, Ford, I’m too old to get down there with ya.” Ford pushes himself up slowly, one hand resting tenderly against his stomach. He’s back to kneeling between Stan’s legs. Stan’s hand gently cradle Ford’s face. “I love ya, Ford. I know ya don’t deserve it, but I’ve never been that smart, huh?” Stan grins at him, lopsided and charming and Ford lets himself melt into Stan’s rough hands. 

“You deserve better,” Ford murmurs, eyes drifting shut and basking in the gentleness Stan radiates like a sun. Despite his rough exterior, despite his temper and rashness, Stan has always been, at his heart, gentle.

“Probably,” Stan agrees and that stings, but Ford knows he’s earned it. “Now, come on, Sixer. Work with me.” Stan pulls on Ford’s face and he follows until they are only inches apart, Stan’s hot breathes wash over his face. He smells like mouth and coffee. “I know you’ve thought about this,” Stan brushes his rough lips over Ford’s brow and Ford shivers. “I know you were angry after a booted me out that door. Come on, Ford.” He kisses Ford’s eyelid, left then right, so soft. “I know you don’t wanna think about it; you were wrong, ya know that, but I wanna know.” Stan tilts his head back and finally kisses his lips; both of them are dry and the kiss is like two sheets of parchment brushing together but it’s warm and loving. Ford feels loved. 

“I was so angry,” Ford confesses, softly, shamefully, his hands rise unbidden to grabs Stan’s arms, trying to ground himself and steady his erratic, flighty heart.

“Keep going.” Stan brushes a hand through his hair. Ford’s embarrassed by the hum of pleasure that slips from his throat. Stan pulls Ford up even further so that he’s standing on his knees and Stan leans into to mouth at Ford’s neck, lips resting against the flighty pulse. Ford feels Stan’s mouth move as he growls: “You’re not done.”

“I-I wanted you to...to hurt like I did.” Ford whispers, hates the words as they leave his mouth and hang in the air like specters. Stan hums against his neck. 

“How did ya want to hurt me, Ford?” Stan’s breath is hot and wet now. Ford bites his lip against the moan of muted anticipation and self disgust. It’s disquieting. 

“I...” Ford takes a shuddering breath, the words  are hot in his chest and barbed, painful to pull up and out of his throat. “Sometimes I hit you.” Ford can’t hang his head so he bares his throat completely and stares at the ceiling. He feels Stan’s lips curl in a grimace. He squeezes his eyes shut against the feeling. His senses only compensate and he feels it more acutely. “Most of the time I...” Ford chokes over the shame. “I imagined fucking you until you cried.” His voice cracks and he can’t breathe past the tense hand of self loathing squeezing his throat. “I’m so sorry,” he sobs, tears starting anew, another fresh torment to remind him how far he has fallen; how much the sun burned his wings when his pride carried him so far above those who loved him. How much of a wretched creature he is, not even fit to be swallowed  Stan’s beloved sea.

“Sh,” Stan kisses is jaw. “You know better now. Don’t you, Ford?” Ford swallows, feels Stan’s hand slide to rest against his neck again. The broad palm against his pulse is grounding.

“Yes,” he nods. Stan smiles against his neck and it feels like a benediction.

“Good man,” he breathes, hotly against Ford’s neck. Ford lets out a high, breathy noise. “Ford,” Stan draws back and cups Ford’s face again. “Are you ready to show me how sorry you are?” Ford’s breath catches and he swallows. He is afraid and that fear is bitter, another failure that he is hesitant do this one thing for his brother. “Ford,” Stan rubs a thumb under his eye, reassuring. Loving. Ford hates how much he craves it. “I won’t hurt you, Ford. I don’t want to.” Stan kisses him chastely, a small glide of his tongue against the seam of Ford’s lips as he pulls back. “This is for you.” Ford gulps, gut twisting, head spinning. 


End file.
